


A Gentleman's Inheritance

by andimeantittosting (Saylee)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Engagement of Convenience (Castiel/Charlie), Forced adoption, M/M, SPN Regency Big Bang, disinherited Castiel, implied past domestic abuse (mention), infertility (mention)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting
Summary: Castiel Shurley has always done his duty by his family. When his father dies, Castiel inherits not only the title of Viscount, but also deep debts. At his aristocratic mother's behest, he agrees to court Miss Celeste "Charlie" Middleton—a wealthy heiress, but the daughter of cits. Though they are not in love—and though he secretly has feelings for her cousin, the charming Dean Winchester—Castiel and Charlie soon agree to wed.But Castiel's life is upended by the arrival of his scandalous Aunt Amara, who reveals that he is not the son of Charles and Naomi, but illegitimate, taken from his unwed mother to serve as Charles’s heir. When she carries out her threat to reveal the truth to the world, Castiel loses his title, his home, and his place in the world. Feeling honour-bound to break off his engagement, he finds himself invited to stay instead, as a member of Dean and Charlie's unconventional household, and learns the meaning of freedom.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle
Comments: 42
Kudos: 189
Collections: SPN Regency Big Bang 2020





	1. Endings

**Author's Note:**

> I was thrilled by the creation of the SPN Regency Big Bang. Many thanks to the mods for running this fun challenge!
> 
> I was lucky to be paired wth the talented [JenniferB](https://jenniferb-art.tumblr.com/), whose beautiful art is embedded in the fic. Be sure to go check out the [Art Masterpost](https://jenniferb-art.tumblr.com/post/629026348337430528/show-chapter-archive) as well and leave some love!
> 
> Many thanks to [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) for her encouragement and excellent beta-reading.
> 
> A quick note on historical accuracy: While research was definitely involved in writing this fic, ultimately my goal was to capture the feel of a regency romance novel, and in places, strict historical accuracy has been sacrificed in the name of story. I have chosen to use the convention of much writing of the time, and in places have replaced specific place names with a dash.

There was something remarkably freeing in discovering that one’s whole life had been a lie.

Castiel, Viscount Shurley—no, not Viscount; he was merely Castiel Shurley now—turned off — Street. His destination was an avenue no less well heeled, but decidedly less fashionable, being the home of wealthy tradespeople, rather than members of Castiel’s own—former—class. It was also the home of his fiancée, though the engagement was not destined to last much longer.

Of all the vestiges of his old life to which he was bidding goodbye, this was the one aspect over which he felt some regret. He was not sorry that he was no longer obliged to marry an heiress to salvage the family fortunes that his father had left ravaged. He was also not in love with his fiancée. But he did like her very much and he would miss her company—and that of her family, particularly that of her cousin, a Mr. Dean Winchester.

Lost in thought, Castiel let his feet carry him to — Street and to the heavy oak door of the tall, modern house where Miss Celeste Middleton resided.

A gentleman did not break off his engagement. But Castiel was no longer a gentleman.

Castiel lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped on the door.

He was not left on the doorstep, heart a lump in his throat, for long. The door was opened by a familiar, smiling footman.

"Hello, Jack."

Jack scrambled into a bow. He was young and unpolished for a footman and would never have been tolerated in one of the great homes Castiel had been used to all his life, but Castiel found him refreshing all the same.

"Lord Milton!" Jack exclaimed. There was no hesitation in his greeting, no question in his tone—which meant that the news had yet to reach the inhabitants of the house, for servants were somehow always the first to learn the salacious gossip. That was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, Castiel ought to be grateful that he had got there ahead of the unsavoury rumours, but on the other, it meant that he would have to explain everything himself.

He did not relish the thought.

Jack did not seem to notice Castiel’s distraction. "Miss Celeste is still abed,” he said apologetically. Then, “I mean, not at home," he hurried to correct himself. 

"Of course." Castiel should have expected that, having more than once listened to his fiancée's raptures on the joys of sleeping late, but he had felt it best to get this business over with without delay. "I can come back later." He had no plans to occupy himself, but he might as well wear out his boot leather walking the cobblestone streets. Perhaps he could shake the strangeness he felt, the sense of inchoate longing for he knew not what that he had always set aside, expanding now in his chest, refusing to be ignored. 

Jack was not finished. "But the master is in the breakfast room, if you'd like to wait with him."

“I—” Castiel hesitated. He liked Mr. Winchester very well—better than he should—but how could he take breakfast with the man as if nothing was amiss? And he would be obliged to act as if nothing was amiss, for surely he should broach this subject with Miss Middleton first.

After which neither she, nor Dean Winchester, would want anything to do with him.

But before he could make his excuses and take himself elsewhere until such a time as Miss Middleton had roused herself from slumber, the door to the breakfast room swung open, and Dean Winchester himself poked his head out into the corridor.

“I thought I heard voices,” he exclaimed, a grin stretching across his face and rendering him even more handsome than usual. He was clearly in a good mood this morning. “Lord Milton.” He sketched a short bow, that something irreverent in his tone that always suggested to Castiel that he didn’t think much of the system of peers, but some part of him liked Castiel, nevertheless. Castiel roughly suppressed a frisson of attraction. “Charlie’s still in bed, but you’re welcome to take breakfast with me.”

“I’m not Lord Milton,” Castiel blurted out, despite himself. Winchester stared at him. Behind him, he could feel the footman’s equally wide eyes. “Not any more,” he amended weakly, and at that, Winchester sprung into action.

*****

_Dean Winchester was an extremely wealthy man, but he was not a gentleman. “A cit,” Castiel had heard him called disparagingly by the members of his class, even as they shook his hand and the more impecunious among them attempted to foist their daughters off on him. He had made his money in carriages and other conveyances, and to boast that one owned a fashionable WInchester curricle was a fine thing indeed._

_Winchester was a youngish man of about an age with Castiel, and was a cousin of Celeste Middleton, Castiel’s fiancée. The exact degree of relation escaped Castiel, but whatever it was, it allowed Celeste, an unmarried young woman, to reside with Winchester, a single man. Winchester also had a brother, Samuel, a scholarly fellow, who was wed to the widow of one of the Scottish peers. It was through this connection that Winchester and Celeste had gained entrée into society._

_Castiel had first made the acquaintance of Celeste and her cousin at a soirée hosted by the Somervilles. His mother, the Dowager Viscountess, had procured him an invitation upon learning that Celeste would be there—Mary Somerville, a gifted mathematician, had taken a liking to her, it seemed, declaring Celeste quite brilliant herself._

_“Now remember,” his mother had instructed before he headed off in the evening, “Miss Middleton is not good Ton, and undoubtedly quite uncouth, but that is something we will simply have to bear. The fortune left to her by her parents will be compensation enough for us when it pays off the estate’s debts, and no doubt she’ll be thrilled to have a title in exchange.”_

_“The estate’s debts,” as if they had simply accumulated through some mysterious force of their own, and not, say, though his late father’s chronic mismanagement and his attempts to expand their country seat, always bigger and better. Nor were they related to his mother’s insistence on keeping up the appearance of great wealth—as fitting with their elevated status. Since his inheritance, Castiel had done what he could to retrench and correct their course, but the damage was too far gone to reverse without an influx of cash. And so, he had been ordered to pay court to a wealthy young woman who would always see herself sneered at for her breeding by his mother and her ilk._

_Miss Middleton had appeared at the soirée on the arm of her cousin. Mr. Winchester had been immaculately tailored, his close-cropped hair not the height of fashion, but neat and respectable all the same. His features were regular and, Castiel could not help but notice with a shameful, secret interest, uncommonly handsome. There was nothing about his appearance to distinguish him from a gentleman, save for the vague air of discomfort and distrust with which he eyed the chattering members of the Ton._

_Miss Middleton, on the other hand, had stood out with her brilliant red hair and daffodil yellow gown. There was something exuberant in her manner and she regarded all about her with genuine smiles, the fashion for disinterest be damned. Despite his misgiving about his mission, Castiel liked her from the moment he spied her across the room._

_His mother had set up her strategy well. Within moments, his hostess had appeared at his elbow and begged his leave to perform the introductions. He and the pair had exchanged their bows and curtsies, and then their hostess had flitted off elsewhere, leaving Castiel looking awkwardly at his new acquaintances._

_“I thought you’d be shorter,” Miss Middleton blurted out after an overly long moment. Winchester disguised a snort of laughter with a cough, and she screwed her features up in embarrassment at her faux pas. “That is, I had heard Viscount Shurley described as a small man.”_

_“Forgive her,” Winchester butted in. “Neither of us are used to breathing in such rarified air, you know.” There was an air of a challenge in his tone, but Castiel did not rise to it, merely quirking an eyebrow in his direction._

_“I am not offended,” he assured. “You are perhaps thinking of my father. He passed some months ago. I do not have his build.”_

_He thought he felt Winchester’s eyes flit over his form, but the man merely said, “My condolences,” in a more genuine tone than before._

_“Thank you,” Castiel said through stiff lips. The truth was, he did not know how he felt about his father’s passing. Indeed, Castiel often found his emotions beyond his means of understanding. And Charles Shurley, the last Viscount, had not been an easy man to know, alternating between distant and indulgent, with a harsh, wrathful streak hidden beneath his unassuming exterior. Castiel had learned to approach his father with caution, and for many years had found it best when his father simply seemed to forget his existence._

_He felt Winchester’s eyes on him again, assessing. Finally the man nodded minutely, as if coming to an understanding, and their eyes met for a brief second, a feeling of kinship running between them._

_Castiel blinked._

_Miss Middleton patted his arm with a delicate, gloved hand. “Dean and I are both orphans, so if you ever want a listening ear…”_

_Feeling as though he was standing outside himself, Castiel thanked her._

*****

Winchester ushered Castiel into the breakfast room and steered him into a tall-backed chair. He stepped away, busying himself at the sideboard, and within minutes had returned, placing a dish piled high with eggs and toast and rashers of bacon before Castiel, urging him to eat.

“Now,” he said, settling into his own chair and leaning back comfortably. “What’s this about not being Lord Milton?”

“I…” Castiel frowned. “I ought to tell Miss Middleton first. I apologize.”

“Eat, man,” Winchester urged again, seemingly unruffled, though his eyes were searching. “Shall I have a servant fetch her.”

“No.” Castiel wet dry lips. “No, that’s quite alright. It’s not urgent. I can wait for her.”

Winchester rolled his eyes. “Not urgent, my foot. Something is clearly amiss. What could you have possibly done that they would strip your title from you? I didn’t know that they could do that.”

“Ah.” Castiel grimaced and looked downwards. “It’s not what I am; it’s who I am. And I will explain once Miss Middleton awakens, because it means I can no longer marry her.”


	2. The Past

“And would you swear to it in a court of law?” Castiel had asked Dr. Raphael Finnerman—the same physician who had tended him through all his childhood injuries and illnesses. 

“I would and I will.” The doctor gazed back at him with a stern face. “Lady Shurley was never with child, and certainly not in the summer of 17—. Amara Shurley, however, was.”

It was the death knell to everything he had known of his life, something he never would have expected when his scandalous Aunt Amara had written some months after his father’s death and announced her intention to return from the colonies for the first time since Castiel’s infancy.

“That woman,” his mother had scoffed. “Is it not enough that she drags the family name through the mud wherever she goes? Now she wants to return here and inflict her taint upon our very home. Can’t she leave well enough alone? Write to refuse her, Castiel.”

But—“No.” For what felt like the first time in his life, Castiel had put his foot down. “She is my aunt—my father’s sister—and she has just learned of her only brother’s death. Who are we to deny her the comforts of family at a time like this? I shall extend the invitation.” 

He did not know what he expected, but something inside him had spoken, whispered that perhaps here he would find the answers to the vague dissatisfaction that had plagued him for many years. There was something missing, he had always felt, something more than duty and position. And yet, he had never quite been able to put his finger on what that thing might be.

It had taken several more months for Amara to arrive, and when she had done so, it was with a gentleman in tow.

“I trust that you are about to tell us that you are wed to this gentleman, Amara,” Naomi had greeted her coldly.

“Oh, not at all,” Amara returned, supremely unconcerned. “You look well, Naomi. And,” she turned to her nephew, “you must be Castiel. I have not seen you since you were a babe in my arms. Do let me look at you. My, you do look like your father.”

“That’s enough,” Naomi snapped, angry for reasons Castiel did not entirely understand. It was an odd remark, to be sure, as Castiel bore no marked resemblance to the late Charles, but hardly worth the poison in his mother’s voice. “Very well,” Naomi went on, having regained her composure and drawn her dignity in around herself like a cloak. “Since you are determined to make a mockery of this family, perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce your friend?”

“Certainly. May I present to you, Mr. MacLeod, my solicitor.”

“Your solicitor?” Naomi scoffed. “Just what do you hope to accomplish with that?”

“I think you know very well, Naomi.”

Castiel looked between his mother and his aunt, bemused. “Perhaps one you you would care to enlighten me?” he suggested. He was quite unused to exerting his authority in such a way, particularly towards his mother, but as the situation was rapidly devolving, he felt it necessary. 

“Do not say anything,” Naomi ordered, at the same time as Amara turned to him, eyes wide and wounded.

“Oh my dear boy,” she sighed. “Have they not told you the truth? You are my son.”

*****

In the year 17––, the Viscount and Viscountess Shurley had been blessed with the birth of twins, a boy, Charles, to serve as the heir and a girl, Amara, sure to be a prize on the marriage mart. 

As children, they were always together and nigh inseparable, though Charles was bookish and cautious and Amara more daring, but as they grew older, their education became separate. For Charles, tutors were hired to teach him literature and rhetoric and the history of their illustrious family. Never a very physical boy, he came to fancy himself something of an intellectual, a writer, even, and his tutor encouraged him in that bent. Charles's tutor also put a great deal of stock into impressing upon the boy a sense of his own consequence, and duly flattered, Charles took these lessons to heart.

His sister, meanwhile, did not prove nearly so enamoured of the ladylike arts and accomplishments which she was expected to learn, much to the despair of her governess and her mother. Not a week went by in which she did not seek to escape her lessons, disappearing for long, solitary rambles in the nearby hills.

"It does not behoove you to go gallivanting about like some wild tramp, your skirts six inches deep in mud," Charles scolded her once, shortly after the twins' fifteenth birthday. "You are the daughter of a viscount. You ought to bear our family's reputation in mind." It was a refrain oft repeated by her mother and her governess, but Amara did not care to hear it from the brother who had once been her partner in crime, and she told him so, much to his chagrin, in language that a young lady of her elevated status ought not to know. It was the beginning of a rift which never quite healed.

In her eighteenth year, Amara was brought to London by her parents for her presentation at court and a first Season on the grand marriage mart. Despite her wild ways, her dowry and connections secured her admirers, as did her handsome looks, but she was swift to rebuff those whose aspirations turned to her in any serious way, and her frank speaking and disdain for the unspoken rules of the Ton soon dissuaded others from considering her at all.

Where Amara made herself unpopular among the upper ranks of society, Charles did much better. Despite his somewhat mousy appearance and his flaws of character, he possessed a certain charisma that drew others in, as no doubt, did his status as heir to a title. 

For some time, he appeared to be courting the effervescent Miss Rebecca Perkins, at the time a great admirer of his writing, though she was known to say in later years that she had come to recognize it as trite and self-congratulatory. In the end, however, he threw her over for another, richer and higher in rank. Despite the blow, Miss Perkins would go on to marry The Honourable Mr. Rodney Rosen, and considered herself well satisfied.

Charles’s chosen bride was a Lady Naomi Tapping. She was a cool, prim young woman and a stickler for propriety, a choice Charles considered fitting for his consequence as a future viscount. What she was not, however, was fertile. The couple spent their first year of marriage trying to conceive, and then, after Charles’s father fell victim to a bad heart and Charles ascended to the title, they continued to try for another year and a half, despite Naomi’s ever-growing distaste for the act. If Charles did not have an heir, the title would pass instead to his cousin, a prospect he found humiliating and did not care for in any way.

Amara had successfully avoided marriage through several Seasons and her last two Seasons had been cancelled altogether following the death of her father. The family retreated to their country seat for the mourning period, and remained there in the hopes that the fresh country air could accomplish what London had not and cause Naomi to quicken. Left much to her own devices during this time, Amara resumed her solitary rambles through the old familiar haunts of her childhood.

Not everything was familiar, however, for the old rector, Mr. Richings, had retired to the north to reside with his daughter, and in his place was a young man by the name of James Novak, who had been given the living by Amara’s father shortly before his passing. James was a fine young man, compassionate and devout, but he was a very young man, and not immune to the charms of a pretty, headstrong young woman. Thus, before long, he considered himself in love. 

Amara did develop some finer feelings of her own, and the young pair consummated their mutual regard in the large oaken bed of the rectory. However, when James ended this encounter by professing his desire to marry her, she rebuffed him, knowing that such a marriage was impossible, and valuing her own freedom far too much to become the wife of a clergyman. 

James began to search for other livings the very next day, and one may be assured that he never knew of what came next. Some years later, he married a Miss Amelia Everett, the daughter of a neighbouring rector, and in due course, they were blessed with a daughter, Claire.

For the first weeks after her tryst, Amara dismissed her bodily malaise as mere ambivalence over the way her love affair had ended, but by the third month had come and gone without her courses, she was forced to admit certain truths to herself. She presented herself to Dr. Raphael Finnerman, who at the time was a young man newly established in his practice. Despite his stern demeanour, he did confirm that she was indeed with child, and promised his services would be available to her with full discretion for the entire length of her indisposition.

After that, she gathered her family in the drawing room to break the news. Predictably, her mother and brother reacted with great dismay to her indiscretion, and scolded her roundly. It was Naomi who took charge, declaring this an opportunity.

"You shall be kept out of sight until the child is born, naturally," she had said. "And we will put it about that I am in an interesting condition at last. I will go into confinement at the expected time, and with luck, we will present our heir. Your reputation, such as it is, will be preserved, and the child need never know the shame of his true parentage."

"A fine idea," Charles, who had grown greatly impatient in his need for an heir, had decreed, and despite Amara's protests, the plan had been carried out, the threat of leaving her and the child penniless enough to dissuade her from fighting it there and then.

In due time, she produced a son, Castiel, who was taken from her arms and presented to Naomi and Charles as their own, while she looked on, despairing. A wetnurse was procured so Amara could have no reason to maintain her connection to the child. And so it was that, heart full of resentment, she set out the moment she was healed, courting scandal to travel first to the continent, and then to Canada, quite alone. 

Castiel was raised as Charles and Naomi's son, picking up here and there mere scraps of whispers about his father's scandalous sister.

*****

In the end, it was as simple as a word dropped in the ear of The Honourable Mrs. Rosen—the Miss Perkins that was, who had once been in the running to become Lady Shurley herself, and who had maintained for many years that she considered herself to have had a fortunate escape. By evening, it was all about town, and by morn, the notice in the paper only served to confirm what had already been accepted as fact.

“The poor lamb,” Mrs. Rosen opined to her husband over toast, much as she had to her circle of acquaintances the afternoon before, “to have been raised by that pair, and then to find out they were never one’s parents at all.” Her own adult sons were only a few years younger than the poor lamb in question, but she was very certain of their parentage, at least. “That is the worst of it, I believe.”

Her husband paused in the spreading of his marmalade. “The world can be unkind to a soul born on the wrong side of the blankets,” he reminded her, “and that young man has lost everything he believed to be his. It’s a pity, a good, steady young man like that.”

Mrs. Rosen’s face fell. “Oh, undoubtedly. And I deserve that reprimand. I always liked him, and he had the prettiest manners. I do feel awful for my part in spreading the story, Rodney, truly I do.”

At that, the poor lady looked so wretched that her husband reached out to pat her hand. “There now, it is written up here in my morning paper, so you see, it would have come to light, with or without your love of an  _ on-dit _ , my dear. You may rest easy.”

“Oh.” She breathed out a great sigh of relief. “I shall take that as a balm unto my conscience, but still, that poor young man. Is there aught we can do to make sure he lands on his feet?”

*****

While the Rosens were having a companionable breakfast, the atmosphere in the Shurley household was considerably chillier. No sooner had Amara begun to fill her plate with poached eggs, than Naomi had swept into the room and demanded the breakfast be cleared away, before anyone had had a bite. The family’s loss was to be the servants’ gain.

Castiel, always one for practicality, had thought to at least nourish himself before facing down his new reality. To his misfortune, he had only managed to acquire one slice of toasted bread before the meal was cleared away. Resigned, he swallowed it down to at least tide him over.

“So,” Naomi said to Amara, drawing herself to her full height. “You have done as you have threatened. I hope you are satisfied.” Her voice was as calm and cold as ever, and yet Castiel imagined he could hear a hint of emotion in it, perhaps even for his sake. “You have ruined the boy’s life.”

Amara’s response was a mysterious smile. “Have I really?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Well, I do believe I have outstayed my welcome here. I shall be off. Castiel, my darling son, do come visit me at the –- Hotel. We must make up for lost time. Mr. MacLeod, come along.” With apparent unconcern at the steely rage in Naomi’s face, she departed, Mr. MacLeod bowing stiffly before hurrying after her.

Thirty-four was a bit old to be considered a boy. It was a nonsensical thought under the circumstances, but Castiel felt curiously lightheaded, the consequences sinking in.

Castiel was left alone with the woman he had long believed to be his mother. 

"I suppose cousin Michael is the Viscount now," he said, after a moment of silence that stretched on too long to be comfortable. Michael was a second cousin, very proper, and no doubt well suited to the role.

"Yes." Naomi spoke through stiff lips. "He will need to take up your seat in Parliament, and no doubt he will wish to make his London residence here."

"He is wealthy," Castiel pointed out. "He inherited a large sum from his mother, and his wife brought a considerable fortune to the marriage as well."

"Yes," Naomi agreed again. "The estate will be restored."

"I will be sure to vacate before he arrives," Castiel voiced the thing they had both been avoiding. "My personal effects are packed." He had spent the evening before on the task, having dismissed his valet, the better to meditate on his new circumstance. "Once I have established a place to stay, I will send for them."

"Very well," Naomi had said, her voice even and calm. "And what will you do now?"

Without knowing the answer himself, Castiel could only tell her his most immediate plans. "I must go end things with Miss Middleton before anything else."

Naomi nodded. "That seems wise. I wish you the best."

Her words were final and she did not move to embrace him, and so Castiel merely returned her nod. "Goodbye, Mother."

But she was not his mother at all, was she?


	3. The Present

“And that is why I cannot marry you,” Castiel concluded, forcing himself to continue to meet Miss Middleton’s eye. He owed her his forthrightness now.

Breakfast had been awkward. Winchester had been kind enough to accede to Castiel’s request to wait for Miss Middleton, and had not pressed the issue further. Instead, perhaps in response to Castiel’s still shaken demeanor, he had attempted to ply him with a veritable mountain of breakfast foods, including a gooseberry pie he’d had brought forth from the larder specifically to tempt Castiel. Giving in to the good-natured bullying, Castiel had accepted a slice, and taken a small portion of the rest of what was on offer, in order to satisfy his host.

He had managed to make headway on the food under Winchester’s watchful eye, as if the man expected him to expire on the spot without proper sustenance. Eating also helped provide a suitable distraction from the awkward smalltalk that was their only conversational option while Castiel’s news hung over their heads.

Castiel could not recall ever being so uncomfortable in Winchester’s company. They had been thrown together frequently while Castiel was courting Miss Middleton, and the man had a knack for putting Castiel at ease. Indeed, even Castiel’s somewhat stiff and reticent nature had been overcome by a seeming magnetic pull to the man. Even now, Castiel was drawn to him, but the knowledge that he must soon forfeit his company forever cast a pall over any pleasure he might have taken.

At long last, they had been freed from their impasse by the appearance of Miss Middleton. She was clad in a simple morning gown, with her brilliant red hair piled loosely on her head and curling softly down around her face. If Castiel had been equipped to admire women as he admired men, he would have been enamoured indeed. 

Though under the circumstances, that would only have made his predicament more difficult. Small mercies, he supposed.

Not seeming to notice Castiel’s presence at her breakfast table, Miss Middleton made a beeline for Winchester. “I require chocolate.”

“Here you are, your highness.” Winchester was prepared, having begun pouring a cupful of warm chocolate as soon as her footsteps had sounded on the stairs. He pushed it into her hands now. She proceeded to drain it and pour herself another, while Winchester placed a slice of the pie on a plate, passing that to her as well. “Good morning. We have company.”

“Oh!” Miss Middleton whirled around and spied Castiel, waiting awkwardly at his spot at the table. “I beg your pardon. I am not at my best in the mornings. You are here very early, my lord.” She took in the expression on his face. “Is aught amiss?”

“I am afraid so,” Castiel confessed. “The news has already circulated among the _Ton_ , but the rumours don’t appear to have reached you yet. It is quite a long story.”

“I am all ears,” Miss Middleton declared, settling into her chair. “Dean and I will do all in our power to assist you.”

“I am afraid that may not be possible,” Castiel admitted on a sigh, “but I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.” He proceeded to explain the series of events, beginning with his aunt’s—his mother’s—letter, and ending with this morning, with the loss of his title and the life he had known.

“And that is why I cannot marry you,” he had concluded. “It is most unseemly of me to end our engagement, but I can no longer offer you my title or my home, or even a name unsullied by illegitimacy and scandal. I am terribly sorry.”

“You musn’t apologize,” Miss Middleton admonished. “I understand completely. Thus ends my aspirations to be a bride,” she continued lightly, before becoming serious once more, “but I am more concerned with you. What will you do now?”

Castiel was taken aback by her kindness. To be a woman jilted could bring grave and lasting harm to one’s future marriage prospects. By all rights, she should have been cursing him roundly, and her cousin joining in besides. “You mustn’t worry about me.”

“Oh, but I must,” she insisted. “You look as if life has planted you a facer. Do you have anywhere to go?”

In truth, Castiel had not thought that far ahead. He must secure lodging and employment, must find a place for himself in a whole new world, but he did not know where to begin.

His indecision must have shown on his face, because, “You must stay with us,” Winchester declared before Castiel could recover enough to make up some comforting falsehood that he had the situation in hand.

“Oh no, I could not,” Castiel protested instinctively. “I could hardly impose upon you and upon Miss Middleton. Really, I ought to take my leave and…”

“You must stay with us,” Miss Middleton took up the invitation, insistent. “As long as you need.”

Overwhelmed by the undeserved kindness, Castiel could do naught but accept. “Mr. Winchester, Miss Middleton, I cannot thank you enough.”

“And that’s another thing,” Winchester declared. “Enough with this Mr. Winchester and Miss Middleton nonsense. You are our friend, and now a member of our household. You must call us Dean and Charlie.”

“I…” Castiel knew that among intimates, it was quite reasonable to use given names, but it was not something he had any experience with. His parents had always addressed each other as Lord and Lady Shurley, and once Castiel had ascended to the title, his mother had taken to calling him Shurley as well. Having always been an awkward boy, and one who had been educated at home besides, he had never developed close friendships. The pattern had continued into his adulthood, and while he had been generally well-respected, he had become close with no one. To be afforded this privilege felt like a great honour—and one that would take a great deal of getting used to. 

“I—very well then,” he continued, almost timidly. “Then you may call me Castiel.”

“Good man.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder, a friendly gesture that left a spot of glowing warmth. “Welcome to our family, Cas.”

*****

“Oh,” said Castiel, upon opening the door to Winchester House’s library some hours later and finding Miss Middleton—Charlie—curled up on a settee within, novel in hand. He had found himself at loose ends since completing the arrangements for his effects to be brought here, and had found himself aimlessly exploring his new home. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Middleton. I will leave you to your reading.” Despite his best intentions, he found himself too shy to address her by her first name, let alone a diminutive.

He made to close the door behind him, but she stopped him, jumping up and closing her book around her finger to mark her page. “No, no, no. Do come in and have a coze with me. And I have told you, if you are to reside with us, then I cannot be Miss Middleton. It is Charlie.”

“Miss Celeste,” he hedged. Still Castiel hesitated, so she plopped herself down on the settee again, scooting to one side and patting the space beside her.

“Not Miss Celeste. Charlie,” she repeated firmly. “Goodness, did you intend to spend our married life calling me Lady Shurley? How uncomfortable that would be. Do come sit down. You mustn’t be afraid of me, just because our engagement has ended.”

Castiel grimaced, but did as he was told, bowing to the unstoppable force that was his former fiancée. He crossed the room and took a seat on the settee, as far to his side as space would allow. She folded down the corner of her page and set her book aside.

“Miss Middleton,” he began. “Charlie,” he corrected himself at her stern look. The intimacy felt odd in his mouth, but the way she beamed at him eased the awkwardness he felt. “Charlie, I owe you a thousand apologies. Not only can I no longer offer you marriage in good conscience, but I am afraid that I may have blighted your chances to find another match among the _Ton_ , simply through your association with me. I must beg your forgiveness for that as well. I will do what I can to see that the stain upon my name does not spread to yours as well.”

To his great surprise, Charlie laughed. “Oh goodness,” she said, one hand covering her mouth as her eyes danced. “Do you suppose I cared for a society marriage? Why, I needn’t ever marry if I am not inclined to—and generally, I am not.”

Feeling utterly wrong-footed, Castiel could only squint at her in confusion. “If that is so, then why agree to marry me?” He did not delude himself that he was some great prize, and while they shared a mutual regard, he had never believed her in love with him any more than he was in love with her.

In fact, Mr. Winchester—Dean—had told him as much when he had come to propose.

“You are not in love with her?” he had asked as Castiel stood in Dean’s study, hands clasped awkwardly behind his back, waiting for Charlie to finish her toilette and come down. 

Castiel had bitten his lip, but as a man of honour, honesty was the only course. “I esteem her greatly—indeed, I like her very much—but no, I am not in love with her.”

Dean’s gaze weighed him, and Castiel fought not to wilt from shame. “You wish to marry only for esteem?” he asked at last, tone inscrutable.

Castiel hid a wince, but Dean’s keen eyes caught it anyway. “I am ashamed to confess it, but my family’s fortunes were left in dire straits after my father’s passing, far beyond what my efforts alone might salvage.”

“So you must marry an heiress,” Dean surmised. 

It sounded so sordid, even though Dean’s tone was curiously without judgement. “That is the shape of it, yes. I will understand if you refuse my suit. After all, I can offer Miss Middleton no more than my title and friendship.”

“Some would put a great deal of stock into those,” Dean said. “It is not my place to accept or reject a proposal for Charlie—she will make that choice herself—but for what it is worth, I would not be sorry to see her marry you. It is good that you are not in love with her; she is not in love with you, either, and not like to become so. I think you two will be quite happy together.”

Something had seemed to twist his mouth at those last, incongruous words, so Castiel hastened to assure him, “Should Miss Middleton accept me, you will always be welcome in our home, Mr. Winchester. I would not wish to deprive you of your cousin, and if I may, I consider you a friend as well.”

The man really was unfairly beautiful, Castiel thought, as they shook hands, strong, calloused fingers gripping his own—Dean still played an active role in the manufacture of his carriages as well as overseeing his business, and though many of Castiel’s acquaintance would consider him debased by such physical labour, for Castiel, it only increased his unbidden attraction.

The best thing was simply not to dwell on it. 

Now Charlie patted his hand. “I agreed to marry you, because I like you very much. We are good friends, are we not? And I agreed also, because I thought we could do each other a good turn. We are of the same ilk, after all, and if we were married to each other, then we could not be expected to marry elsewhere.”

Completely bewildered, Castiel confessed, “I am afraid I do not understand.”

“Do you not?” her expression was one of surprise. “Surely, you have gleaned that I feel for women as you do for men. I understood you right away, and so I took no great pains to hide it.”

Castiel had gleaned no such thing, had not truly realized that others might share his unusual penchants, but looking back now, some things became clear.

*****

_“Oh, isn’t she exquisite,” Charlie had breathed, as they passed Lady Gilda Dupont, while strolling arm in arm through Hyde Park. She’d turned her head to watch the other lady continue on. “An apparition of loveliness.”_

_Castiel remembered he had made some vague noise of agreement, distracted as he was by the sight of Dean strolling arm-in-arm with his sister-in-law some distance ahead, thinking at the time that his companion had been commenting on Lady Gilda’s dress—a topic on which he wasn’t qualified to speak._

_*****_

_“Goodness, she’s magnificent!” she had whispered into Castiel’s ear, her hand clutching tightly around his bicep as they had listened to a lecture by Miss Dorothy Baum, a noted adventuress. Charlie had been spellbound by the vivid description of that lady’s latest expedition to the depths of an emerald temple—or so Castiel had believed. Perhaps, it was truer to say that she had been spellbound by the lady._

_*****_

_“That one looks like she would eat you alive,” Dean had remarked at one soirée, when Castiel had joined the pair after an obligatory dance with Miss Masters._

_Charlie had sighed. “I’d let her eat me alive.”_

_It was an odd comment, Castiel had thought, but then Dean had descended into an impromptu coughing fit, and Castiel’s attention had been thoroughly diverted. He understood better now, both Charlie’s remark and Dean’s reaction. His face coloured with the knowledge._

_*****_

Dean’s comments on the occasion of Castiel’s proposal to Charlie suddenly made a great deal more sense as well. 

“I was blind,” was all Castiel could say. “But you say you understood me from the start. How? I have taken great pains to hide my inclinations. I have never—”

Charlie patted his arm. “You need not fear. I have experience spotting my own kind, and saw the attraction between yourself and Dean right away. But there was never anything untoward in your behaviour that would otherwise give you away.”

“Ah.” Castiel cleared his throat.

It was true that he had been captivated by Dean immediately, not just by his face and form, though those were beautiful indeed, but by the very essence of him, the spark of life in him. Further acquaintance had only borne that out. That first night, though Castiel had found himself fast friends with Charlie as well, with her quick mind and open demeanor, it was Dean who had been in his thoughts as he had slipped into his bed.

Except when Castiel had led Charlie out for the set he had solicited, a lively reel, they had spent most of the evening in company with Dean, presumably so Dean could keep an eye on his cousin’s would-be swain. Even so, when Charlie had retreated to the ladies’ withdrawing room to freshen up following the vigorous dance, the two men had found themselves drifting closer together, the conversation between them easy—easier than Castiel ever found conversation to be, with anyone—and even the silences between them comfortable. Dean, Castiel had concluded, had a knack for putting others at their ease.

The secret part of himself that Castiel never examined had wished for Dean to do far more than simply put him at ease. In his bed that night, he had thought of green eyes and a charming smile, and had firmly kept his hands by his sides, forbidding himself the touch he desired, even as the low ache kept him from sleep.

Following that first evening, Castiel’s deliberate courtship of Charlie had often thrown him together with Dean as well, and he had never complained. Beyond his charming exterior, Castiel had discovered him to be kind, fiercely intelligent, and just offbeat enough that he seemed to enjoy Castiel’s oddnesses and awkwardness, rather than finding them off-putting.

It was fair to say that Castiel was well past the point of attraction. In fact, though he had never dared admit it to himself, he suspected his heart was involved. His colour deepened and something of his thoughts must have shown in his face, for Charlie smiled kindly at him.

“There now,” Charlie assured him, a sparkle in her eyes. “And it is not unrequited, you know. Dean has been quite embarrassingly smitten with you, right from the start.” She scrunched up her nose. “I would wager that if I were to raid his study, I would find odes to the turn of your calves hidden amongst his business ledgers.”

“My calves?” Castiel repeated, dumbstruck.

Charlie waved an airy hand. “Or some such. I am not much given to admiring the forms of men, but I’m sure yours are magnificent. And I am in favour of facilitating the course of true love, so, consider this your blessing to pursue the object of your affections.” 

*****

Over the next few weeks, Castiel found himself gradually settling in and finding his place in the Winchester-Middleton household. Dean and Charlie were both kind hosts, though they insisted Castiel ought not to consider himself a guest, but a member of the family. The household servants were a friendly bunch, well-paid and happy, and a considerable effort was made to see to Castiel’s comfort.

He soon learned the rhythms of the household and it’s residents. Charlie liked to lay abed of a morning, while Dean, though somewhat bear-like until he had drunk the rich, strong coffee he preferred, would take a large breakfast before heading off to his manufactury to oversee his business, and as often as possible, get his hands dirty constructing the conveyances himself. Once Charlie awakened, she would often spend the mornings over correspondence with various scientists and mathematicians, or deep in calculations of her own. 

It was during these mornings that Castiel felt the most at loose ends. Previously, his days had been given over mostly to the business of the estate, to his role in parliament, and to his mother’s—to Naomi’s—demands on his time. Constrained as he was by the limits of what Naomi considered respectable, he had never so much as developed hobbies, let alone any kind of occupation to which he could turn his mind now. Now, keenly feeling his idleness, he decided he ought to develop some. 

If only he knew where to begin.

It was rather lowering, at the age of thirty-four, to discover that one had no desires or interests of one’s own. Had he been a mere automaton, playing at being heir and viscount, and not a person of his own? Always, there had been a vague longing, but every attempt he had made at capturing the shape of his own desires had been frustrated and fleeting, the very knowledge escaping his grasp.

How did one learn to want?

Afternoons were better. Castiel frequently found Charlie in the library, where they might while away some hours with their respective reading, or they might stroll together in the park if the weather was fine. When his business permitted him, Dean would often join them, and when it did not, Castiel would sometimes bear him company in his study while he grumbled over the ledgers and wrote seemingly irate letters to his suppliers, or roundly cursed that type of gentleman who did not believe in paying his debts to tradespeople—of whom Castiel had, unfortunately, once known many. Castiel found he enjoyed this new, gruffer side of Dean as much as any other he had seen thus far. 

Castiel discovered another side of Dean as well, or at least one he had not had occasion to observe so closely. He had always noted Dean’s charm, especially when he was winning over the upper class hostesses during his and Charlie’s forays into _Ton_ society, but that had often seemed a veneer, a mask for his discomfort among those who would forever judge him for his background in trade, while this—this seemed more sincere. Castiel wondered if Charlie had perhaps said something to encourage Dean, for, as Castiel settled in, Dean began flirting with intent.

On a particular evening, dressed for dinner, Castiel stepped out of his door and nearly collided with Dean, similarly garbed and looking dashing in an evening coat of a green so dark that it appeared black. 

“Careful.” Dean put out a hand to steady him, bleeding warmth into Castiel’s shoulder. “Perhaps we ought to put a bell on you, my lord.” There was something in the way he said “my lord,” something teasing and affectionate, which made Castiel want to flush to the roots of his hair.

He settled for a mild, “I am not a lord.”

“Ah,” said Dean, still smiling. “But old habits die hard, and you are looking very lordly tonight, in that navy coat. Very handsome, my lord.”

Bemused, Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean in a squint, but Dean merely raised an eyebrow at him and nodded towards the stairs that led to the dining room. “Shall we?”

And thus, Castiel learned what it was to want.

It continued on as such, with Dean pushing only so far, backing off when Castiel grew too flustered, but seemingly very pleased with himself, nonetheless. Castiel, for his part, found he wished to reciprocate, but something—trepidation, the newness of it, the risk—hung over his head and prevented him from action.

He wished he knew how to overcome it.


	4. Beginnings

It was not unusual for Castiel to enter the library and find Charlie within, buried deep within a book. What was slightly more unusual was to find her draped across the settee, and arm covering her eyes dramatically, while the other was flung outward, clutching a letter.

Castiel hesitated in the doorway. “Pardon me, but are you—are you quite alright?”

“Oh!” Charlie craned her head upward to see who had discovered her, wide-eyed. “Cas.”

“Is something amiss?” he tried, gently. “Did you receive bad news?”

“What? Oh,” she said, glancing at the letter in her hand. “No, not bad news. The best news.  _ She  _ is coming home. Whatever shall I do?” she wailed, flopping back down like the heroine in a melodrama, with the letter clutched to her chest, red hair falling from her coiffure and spilling over the arm of the settee.

“Um.” Castiel picked his way gingerly into the room, and perched on an armchair near her head. “She?”

“Jo. Joanna Harvelle. My dearest friend.” Charlie sighed, a fluttery, longing sound. “The love of my life. We played together as girls, you know. She has been away, in the north, and now she is coming home.”

Castiel furrowed his brow. “You do not wish to see her, your dearest friend?”

“How can I?” Charlie moaned. “When I love her so ardently?

“Ah.” Castiel reached out a hand to awkwardly pat her on the back of her fingers. “There, there.” It was not a form of comfort he was much used to giving, but it must have succeeded somewhat, because Charlie rolled her head to face him. 

“We kissed, you know,” she confessed in a whisper, pressing her fingertips to her lower lip, “before she went away. And I used to wonder sometimes if perhaps she felt the same. But how do I risk it? How do I lay my heart out there, ready to be broken?”

“I think,” Castiel drew the words out slowly, as he worked through the idea for the first time, himself. “I think perhaps that’s what love is about—being willing to take that risk, to offer one’s heart, to trust that person will catch us when we fall.” He thought of Charlie and the faceless Jo, but he thought also of kind green eyes and a rough timbre and a hard-working hand, reaching out across the cavern of his uncertainty to help him cross over into the unknown.

Yes, he thought. Yes, he would take that risk.

Charlie took his hand and gave it a squeeze, her smile tremulous but there. “I think,” she said, a hint of a laugh in her voice, “that you are very wise.”

*****

Despite his newfound determination to take a risk on love, Castiel did not delude himself into believing that he could match Dean’s flirtations. With that in mind, the next time Dean set out to tease roses into Castiel’s cheeks, Castiel simply steeled his nerves, stepped forward into Dean’s space, and kissed him.

Though it was mid-day, they were completely alone in the library, Charlie having been dragged out shopping and for ices at Gunther’s with Samuel’s wife Rowena. The windows, which were open wide to let in the light, faced into a private garden, granting them all the privacy Castiel could wish.

He stepped back after only a moment to see Dean wide-eyed, his face flaming. “Cas?” he asked and gave a little, disbelieving laugh, rubbing a hand over his face, as if to wake himself up. “What was that?”

Castiel’s nerves quivered, but he forced himself to face Dean head on. “That,” he said, “was what I presume you were angling for with your flirtations, was it not?”

His heart was in his throat until Dean gave a small, stunned nod. “Yes.” Dean’s voice was raspy. “Yes, it was.”

“Good.” For once, Castiel felt like he was on solid ground. “Then I believe we ought to do it again.”

“Oh, hell yes.” This time, it was Dean who stepped into Castiel’s space, taking his face in both his hands, and kissing him until Castiel’s head spun. This, he thought absurdly, was undoubtedly worth the risk.

Castiel lost track of how long they kissed in the library, but at some point, by mutual agreement, they decided to relocate to Dean’s bedchamber. They put up a barely passable appearance of respectability as they hastened there, but the only servant they passed was Jack, who seemed to notice nothing amiss. 

Safely behind closed doors once again, Dean let out a breathless laugh, and reeled Castiel in, kissing him with a hunger that Castiel returned. Hands began to roam, and now that they were upstairs, deft fingers found their way to the knot of Castiel’s neckcloth. It was swiftly undone and discarded, before Dean pulled him into another kiss, large, warm hands sweeping down Castiel’s back until they cupped his buttocks, a sensation Castiel had not dreamed would be so pleasurable.

It was all so very exciting, and so very new.

“Dean.” Castiel pulled away to catch his breath. His every nerve was alight, as Dean allowed him to step back, but kept a hand spread possessively on his buttocks, the other gently tucking a piece of hair aside. “I have never done this before.”

“Never?” Dean repeated. “A handsome lord like you?” His fingers trailed down the side of Castiel’s face, catching softly on his persistent stubble. 

Castiel swallowed as Dean began to press kisses down the length of his neck. “I am not a lord.” His protest lacked any strength of conviction. 

Dean pulled back to look him full in the face. “As far as I am concerned, you are the only man worthy of the title. But we can stop, if this is too much for you.”

“No.” Castiel caught Dean’s hands before he could withdraw them. “I want to experience it all, with you. I just...do not know what to do.”

“In that case,” Dean winked, “let me show you.” He tugged Castiel back in, and proceeded to do just that.

Later, in the afterglow, they lay side by side, Dean's ankle hooked around Castiel's, the light rasp of their hair feeling very  _ human,  _ very alive. A light sheet was tossed haphazardly over their waists, barely preserving their modesty, not that Castiel was much inclined to care about such things just then.

Bemused at how much his life had changed in just a few short weeks, Castiel huffed a laugh.

"Hmm?" Dean hummed an inquiring sound, fingers tracing light patterns along Castiel's ribs, and Castiel turned his head to meet Dean's smiling eyes. If one could drown in a sea of green, he would. "What's on your mind?"

Castiel sighed. "I didn't know my life could hold such pleasures. I feel like I've been quite turned on my head."

Dean's eyes crinkled at the corners and the tilt of his mouth turned wicked. "Happy to oblige, Cas," he said, after which he proceeded to oblige him some more and for quite some time.

"You realize I will need to find myself some sort of occupation now," Castiel remarked some unknown length of time later, once their mutual desire was once again sated. "Otherwise I will begin to feel like a kept man."

"Such a horrible fate," Dean teased, and Castiel rolled his eyes fondly at him.

" _ Dean. _ "

"Cas." Dean grew serious, his hand seeking out Castiel's own atop the sheets and entwining their fingers. "I hope you know that this is not merely a convenience of the body for me—that you too felt the connection between us from the first. And I hope you know that you will always be welcome to stay, whether or not you have an occupation, and whether or not you ever join me in bed again. This is your home, you know."

"I know." Castiel squeezed the offered hand. "And I hope you know that the connection is not one-sided, and that I plan to join you in bed as often as possible. But I hope you will also allow me to be useful in some way. I am not a man who is built for idleness. I simply have been unable to decide what I want."

"Indeed," Dean agreed, moving so their foreheads just barely touched, and smiling into his eyes. "I feel certain we can find something to suit."

*****

_ The evening he had moved in, Castiel had found himself unable to sleep, too many thoughts chasing themselves around his head at the utter upheaval his life had undergone. Not wanting to disturb his hosts or the servants, he had wrapped himself in the dressing gown that Dean had loaned him until his trunks could be brought the next day, and taking up a candle, had tiptoed downstairs in the direction of the drawing room where he had most frequently visited. _

_ Admittedly, sitting alone with a candle did little more to organize his thoughts than laying in bed had done, but at least this way he was not so tempted to toss and turn. _

_ So deep in thought was he, that he almost didn’t notice the door that he had left ajar being pushed further open, until Dean’s voice drifted across the space. “Are you doing alright, Cas?” _

_ “Oh, Dean!” Castiel startled. “I apologize. I simply needed somewhere to—to think.” _

_ “I told you.” Dean’s voice was kind “This is your home now. You are welcome to use any room you want, at any hour. Do you mind if I sit?” he gestured to the armchair adjacent to Castiel’s. _

_ “Oh—of course.” Even in the dim candlelight, Castiel could make out Dean’s features, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, as he lowered himself into the chair. _

_ “Do you want to talk about it?” Dean asked.  _

_ And so, Castiel did, while Dean listened, late into the night. _

*****

Unsure quite what to expect, Castiel hesitated upon the steps of the –- Hotel, until he was nearly bowled over by a footman in livery, who was overloaded with baggage and trunks.

“I beg your pardon.” Castiel helped right the precarious stack of luggage and tipped his hat to the young man, then, screwing his courage to the sticking place, took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

Contrary to what he had been brought up to expect from his aunt–-his mother–-the lobby was a paean to good taste, expensively but simply furnished. Castiel’s entry was remarked by the proprietor, who, no doubt believing him a man of means by his dress, hurried over to greet him with a bow.

“Welcome, sir, welcome. Are you here to take a room?”

“Not today,” Castiel was obliged to disappoint the man. “I am here to call upon The Honourable Miss Shurley, who I believe is a guest of your establishment.” He presented the proprietor with one of the new calling cards he’d had made, and which he had not yet had occasion to use, proclaiming him merely Mr. Castiel Shurley. 

“Mr. Shurley.” The proprietor inclined his head. “Of course. She gave instructions that you were to be admitted if ever you visited. Right this way, sir.”

Castiel followed him upwards.

With a rap from the proprietor, Amara’s door was opened by a smartly dressed maid, who curtsied and stepped out, revealing her mistress.

“Oh, hello, darling.” Amara, it seemed, was not one for a cool reception. She embraced Castiel, kissing him on both cheeks in the Continental fashion, and ushered him inside, with a word of thanks to the proprietor and a request for a luncheon to be brought up. 

“So,” she said, settling herself on an Egyptian-style settee once the door had closed behind the gentleman. “Have I, as predicted, destroyed your life?”

At a loss for how to behave with this woman, his long estranged mother, Castiel had remained standing, hovering near the door. It took him a moment to recover and consider her question. “You have not,” he admitted at last, picking his way from the door to take a seat in a matching armchair. Perhaps if he had not had the fortune to have earned the friendship of such extraordinary people as Charlie and Dean, he would not have landed on his feet so well, but as it stood—”quite the opposite, in fact.”

“I thought so.” Amara smiled. “You are like me, built for freedom. Tell me,” she leaned forward with intensity in her gaze. “Are you happy, now?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, in a moment of revelation. It was not a feeling he had much been used to in his old life, but now he could feel it, growing sunny little tendrils around his heart. “Yes I am.”

“Good.” Amara settled back into the cushions of the settee. “Tell me about yourself. I wish to know my son.”


	5. Epilogue - The Future

"Why did you do it?" Castiel asked some weeks later. "Did you not think the truth would come out some day?"

Before him, the woman he had long believed to be his mother sat straight-backed and regal in Winchester House's finest chair. 

It had come as a great surprise when Jack had summoned Castiel from his work in Winchester House’s orangery—where he had discovered an affinity for growing things and a scientific curiosity that contributed to a series of experiments in hybridization—to announce the visit of the Dowager Viscountess Shurley and enquire whether Castiel was at home to her. Curious as to what her visit could be about, he had had her brought to the blue drawing room, which was the most well-appointed room in the house, and called for the procurement of tea and cakes. 

As expected, Naomi had sipped the tea, and merely politely nibbled at one of the cakes. Castiel, still newly used to freedom, had indulged himself with one of the decadent honey-cakes that were his favourite. If Naomi had wanted to comment, she had refrained.

For the first quarter hour, the conversation had strictly been stilted smalltalk, until Castiel had enquired about living with Michael and Naomi had been forced to admit that she had moved to the dower house, and that on the occasion of this visit, she was staying with one of her old friends who was one of only a few who had not turned on her due to the scandal.

"Why did you do it?" Castiel had asked, and there it was, out in the open.

Something in Naomi almost seemed to deflate at the question. "You know as well as I do that your father–-your uncle–-was not an easy man. For all his affable demeanor, he did not like to be thwarted, and the longer I went without presenting him with the heir he desired–-well, an opportunity presented itself, and I took it. And I stand by it. As hard as it may be now to suddenly bear the stigma of illegitimacy, it would have been harder still on a child. You wanted for nothing. Certainly, I hoped the truth would not come to light, but I hoped that for your sake, as well as mine."

Naomi had always been a hard woman to read, and she was hard to read still, stiff and cool as she was. Still, Castiel thought he recognized a spark of real feeling there.

"If it eases your conscience, I have not suffered since the truth has come to light. I may not be a figure of consequence anymore, but I am happy here, and I find that matters more."

He could tell from Naomi's expression that she could not quite see the value in the trade, but she was too polite to say so, and the visit ended with an agreement to write, and perhaps to see each other again.

Castiel had escorted Naomi to the door himself, and had brushed a dry kiss across her cheek. "Goodbye, Mother, and if I may–-you may wish to consider reconciling with your sister-in-law. She knows a thing or two about facing down scandal. You might like her more than you expect."

Naomi had raised one brow. "You have grown very self-possessed, you know. I will consider it." And with a sweep of her skirts, she was gone.

As Castiel saw Naomi out, a great clattering arose from the house next door, where a Winchester carriage had pulled up, followed by a second, simpler cart that seemed to hold a great deal of baggage. This must be the Harvelles, Castiel deduced, returned from their long residency in –- Shire.

As the carriage door opened to release a young blonde woman, who bounded down without waiting for the driver to aid her, Castiel found himself nearly bowled over by a whirlwind of red hair, as Charlie rushed down the stairs and out the door to greet her long-missed friend. 

“Charlie!” The girl who must be Jo Harvelle exclaimed, and then the two were embracing, clutching each other tight, as an older woman emerged from the carriage—also without aid. She looked up and caught Castiel’s eye, giving him a firm nod. 

At long last, Charlie and Jo pulled apart, and Castiel could tell, just by the way they looked at each other, that Charlie’s feelings were reciprocated.

“Ellen, Jo, welcome home!” Having heard the commotion, Dean had emerged from his study, and came up beside Castiel to greet his old friends. “Come meet Cas.” His hand fell on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing, a comfortable brand. A warmth filled Castiel’s chest. This was a home, a family, love–-and by losing everything, he had gained these at last.

*****

“You will be pleased to know,” The Honourable Mr. Rosen greeted his wife, who had come to meet him in the entrance hall of their town home, bussing her cheek as he passed, and handing his walking stick over to a footman, “that I have made inquiries into the whereabouts of the once-Viscount Shurley. Today, I learned where he has landed.”

“Oh, that poor dear.” Rebecca Rosen pressed a hand to her chest. “And how does he fare? Is there aught we can do for him.”

“I very much doubt there is,” said her husband, and over her pained gasp, added hastily, “for he has quite landed on his feet. I do not believe he needs our help, or anyone else’s, for he has everything he needs.”

“Oh, that is a relief my dear.” Mrs. Rosen caught her husband’s hands in hers. “Still, do you think I ought to write him, and offer our support? Only if he wants it.”

Mr. Rosen kissed his wife on her head. “Indeed. I think that will do very nicely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Remember to go leave some love on the [Art Masterpost](https://jenniferb-art.tumblr.com/post/629026348337430528/show-chapter-archive), and if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging the [Masterpost](https://spnregencybb.tumblr.com/post/629028522961321984/title-a-gentlemans-inheritance-pairing) on tumblr.


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